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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/28602159">The Fair</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/CraterNile/pseuds/CraterNile'>CraterNile</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Original Work</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Character Study, Existentialism, Original Character(s), Original Fiction, Short One Shot</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2021-01-07</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2021-01-07</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-13 07:55:37</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>General Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>1,189</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/28602159</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/CraterNile/pseuds/CraterNile</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Existentialism abounds at the fairgrounds, and it seems that everyone has forgotten about their history. One man will do nothing about it, and will be very miserable in the process.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>The Fair</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>The fair ground was set up on top of a former cornfield. Everything around Western Howard County gave the impression that it used to be a cornfield. Everything must start somewhere. In the fairground’s case, it started as the field of Farmer Bob Matchet. Matchet was little known. He did little, said little, had little say anyways. He wasn’t the one who had come up with the idea for the fair, and as it turned out he wouldn't be the one to prevent its existence either. </p><p>Nobody seemed to mind the ground they were treading on. But then again, how could they. With the flashy lights and sweet smells in the air, any Matchet related thoughts were squashed. How would they know about him, though. Matchet was a story from a generation passed. A generation of middle class teens who had come to the grounds years before. </p><p>Arty Benson was just finished setting up his stall. He came to the fair every year, hoping to sell his pottery made of the finest clay to the public of unartistic simpletons, so he called them. Strange that he would decide to come back every year as if the fair had some sort of pull on him. Beckoning him no matter how hard he tried to resist. This year, in a fit of rage, he had smashed all of his available pottery to prevent him from going. Somehow, he found the time to make them all from scratch again and actually show up.</p><p>Arty Benson wasn’t a man to be showing his face at a county fair. In all honesty, he wasn’t sure he was even a man. Who is sure about things like that, he would always tell himself. The only thing he was certain of was his love of pottery and his hatred of blueberries, but that was more of a preference.</p><p>“Hey Arty! I see you’ve somehow found yourself crawling back to the peasants at the fair, huh,” shouted a man around his age with a voice that somehow shook and stabilized Arty’s mind.</p><p>“I even smashed all my art beforehand,” Arty responded absentmindedly. “What can I say, I think something about the land just calls to me.” </p><p>Arty looked up from his booth to take in the voice that had interrupted his peace, not that he minded. The voice belonged to a face. The face belonged to Teddy Gold. If Arty was confused about his gender, then you could say that he was more confused about why Teddy Gold had approached his stall. It’s not like there was any ill will between them. More like there was no will whatsoever. End of story.</p><p>Or so Arty believed. </p><p>Teddy Gold was not one to purposefully try and shut anyone out of his life. Quite the contrary, he wanted as many people inside his life as possible. Populating his mind and heart, making him have to think about himself less and less each day. So far, he was succeeding. He wanted to do everything in his power to have as many people in his court as possible, and the fair was the perfect place to recruit.</p><p>As Arty looked confusingly at him, Teddy decided to push on through the awkward greeting. “These really are some beauties you got this year Arty. If i didn’t know any better I’d say they were your best.”</p><p>“Thanks, I guess. I have a fun time making them.” Arty responded.</p><p>The two looked at each other for a while, each trying to glean what the other's angle was. Arty didn’t have an angle. He had come to the fair because it called to him like normal. Teddy had an angle, but he didn’t have convictions. His goal was to fill the void, and all the people left little room for other goals or thoughts. </p><p>Teddy took another look at the pottery and sauntered away from the booth, a nagging voice in the back of his head informing him that the interaction had not gone well, like he didn’t already know. Arty watched him leave with a little confusion on his face but went along with his business, shifting a pot here, smoothing the tablecloth. </p><p>He looked around at all the faces in the crowd, and recognized none of them. He didn’t have a reason too. Teddy wasn’t kidding earlier when he talked about Arty not getting down with the peasantry. </p><p>Arty looked past the crowds and took in the sight of the old Matchet barn. It was fading and out of use, like most of the remnants of farmland out here. He looked at it as if it was an exhibit in a museum. Almost like it wasn’t there to begin with. Matchet held no meaning to Arty. It was only the name of the old barn on the hill. The barn that seemed in rougher shape every time he saw it.<br/>
Nothing had been done to protect Matchet's existence. He didn’t get the old road leading up to the barn named after him. He didn’t get any signs up around his property. That might be the reason no one knew about him. He wasn’t given the star treatment. Nobody had cared when he died, if he had died at all. He was a barn in the eyes of the world. And how little of the world it was.<br/>
How easy it is to be forgotten. How simple it is to let a name slip through the cracks, imprinting itself on the landmark of a nonexistent legacy. There would be no revival of Matchet farms either. How could there be.</p><p>Arty felt the smell of the fair rush back into his senses. He didn’t want to talk. Nobody wanted to talk to him. Nobody knew him. Nobody knew him bar Teddy, he grumbled to himself. Would Teddy be the only one to acknowledge Arty was there. When Teddy told of Arty’s pots, would anybody know the name. Did Arty want them too.</p><p>As the fair started to get shut down for the night, Arty made little attempt to get his stall cleaned up. It was the only thing that could truly mark the fact that he had been there that night. If he moved, how could he know that it was real. If he couldn’t hear Teddy, how could he know that Teddy had existed.</p><p>After the last of the lights had faded from the field, Arty roused himself to clean up and put away his pottery. He hadn’t made any money, unsurprisingly. He wasn’t in it for the money he told himself, he loved what he did. He smashed his pottery out of passion.</p><p>As Arty started to drive down the road that was not named after Matchet, he let his eyes wander to the old barn. He did not question its presence, or its name. He just looked.<br/>
Everybody just looked. The world passed by but the barn stayed in the same place. Over the years it would grow more dilapidated until the roof caved. Or it wouldn’t. Who could tell? Nobody would check on the barn. Nobody checked on Old Farmer Matchet.</p>
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